


Appendix

by hellopurpletiger (Felix_Kawaii)



Series: Library of W.I.Ps (emphasis on the W not the P) [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Appendicitis, Gen, Hospitals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 21:09:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14269581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Felix_Kawaii/pseuds/hellopurpletiger
Summary: /əˈpen.dɪks/[1] a small tube-shaped part joined to the intestine that has no use in humans; [2] a section or table of subsidiary matter at the end of a book or document.-A fairly innocent appendectomy results in utter chaos for the Wizarding World, and all Harry knows is that appendices are useless anyways so why should he care it's gone? After all, it has no function...in muggles.





	Appendix

**Author's Note:**

> Work in progress, emphasis on the work not the progress...

Harry Potter is rarely not in any pain. His shoulder aches sometimes from where Dudley dislocated it months ago. The pads of his fingers and the thin skin on his knuckles are littered with kitchen injuries, a slip whilst peeling carrots, a grater to the edge of his thumb, a stovetop burn on the fringes of his palm. The soles of his feet ache from running, and blister in his ill-fitted shoes. A bruise on his collarbone from being shoved into the wall. Another, purpling by his ribs from a harsh kick. His stomach aches constantly in a mixture of hunger pangs and eating old bits and ends found down the back of the shelves in the fridge and week-old leftovers.

He is rarely not in pain.

So, he thinks little of the sharp cramp in his gut.  It starts in the middle of the night on a Monday. He is in his cupboard, chewing on a piece of raw broccoli. It’s slightly floppy, in the way old vegetables found half-frozen in the back of the fridge usually are, and fibrous from age. It’s the last one in the pack, so he savours it, bitter crunch and all. He paws at the packet in case there are any little buds left, then scrunches it up and slips it between the floorboard and mattress.

The next time he wakes up, it is too hot and too dark. He hears a low guttural groan and his fingers fly to his stomach. The muscle under his bellybutton is swollen and hard. He pushes his fingers down a little, like pressing down on a bruise to see if it helps with the pain, and – oh it hurts, it hurts so bad. He whimpers and his vision blurs.

He twists and turns on his blanket. He tries lying on his front, which makes him bite his lip hard enough to taste blood. Harry tries to lie on his left shoulder; on his right; curls tightly into a ball; he sits up; he lies flat on his back; he tries crossing his legs; any and every position until he is lying on his back with his legs at a ninety-degree angle, resting flat against the wall, an odd parody of sitting. It doesn’t help one bit.

He wants to scream.

He doesn’t drift in and out of sleep, or feel the pain ebb and flow. He is awake for every single minute, second of  _ painpainpain _ and the inexplicable rage to tear his own gut out with his fingernails, as long as it stops.

The clock in the hallway ticks on.

_ (it hurts) _

Tick.

_ (IT HURTS) _

Tock.

_ (it – _

Ticktock

_ -hurts) _

**Tick** _ someone _ **tock** _ helpme _

Aunt Petunia cracks open the cupboard door at six thirty sharp to discover her nephew sitting freakishly and groaning low and continuous, his eyes bloodshot but wide and his forehead drenched in sweat. She eyes the scene in disgust.

“Shut up!” She hisses, when he opens his mouth. “I don’t know what you’ve done to yourself, you freak, but it better not be contagious!”

She throws his school uniform at him and shuts the door.

He doesn’t make breakfast that morning, Aunt Petunia muttering viciously under her breath about ‘infecting her poor Duddikins’, but she does bodily drag him out the house and towards school.

Dudley’s voice whines the whole way there, but Harry hears none of it – only the plod of his too-many-sizes big shoes against tarmac and his ragged breaths.

At break, he locks himself in the toilet cubicle and hunches down against the cool linoleum, forehead leaning against the toilet seat. The acrid smell of vomit burns his nostrils and his stomach turns over and over and  _ over. _

He throws up again, until he is dry heaving, stomach concaved and vision swimming.

“EWWWW! He puked!” He hears Dudley’s gang shriek before they dash out, leaving the place blessedly silent.

He’s never had food poisoning this bad. His head throbs, and the patterns of the tiles swim before him and something in him knows that there is something wrong. He wants to call out for help, for a mum or a dad, anything! He’s going to die, alone in the boy’s bathroom of Little Whinging Primary, aged nine.

His arm slips off the toilet seat and pain explodes behind his eyes.

Distantly, he registers the ground rushing to meet him.

And then, only darkness.

[-]

Petunia Dursley gets a call from the school office at quarter past twelve. She sees the number flash on the little screen by the phone and lets it ring, sipping her tea. When at last, she reaches the bottom of the mug, she sighs.

“Hello, Petunia Dursley speaking?” She says carefully in to the receiver, tone bright but face scowling. What has that freak done now?

“O-oh, Mrs Dursley!” The voice on the other side says, wobblily. “This is Susan from Reception at Little Whinging Primary…” There is a pause, and a trembling breath. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” The girl says, a syllable away from bursting into tears. “There’s been an incident, and we’ve had to call an ambulance!”

Petunia feels faint, barely registers the teacup shattering at her feet. “I-is…” She swallows thickly, tears springing to her eyes. Oh, her little boy! Oh, her sweet, sweet – “D-dudley?” She whispers.

“Oh! No!” The girl blurts. “Not Dudley, it’s Harry!” She says and Petunia blinks away the tears in shock, and then tries to bite off the snarl that threatens to erupt from her lips. “The ambulance has just taken him, they said they’re going to St. John’s Hospital?”

A hospital? Her mind flies back to non-prescription glasses picked out of the charity bin, and the sharpness of his spine, the smell of burnt skin, the crack of bone against the wall after a hasty shove, and the vaccinations she’d taken one child in for and not the other. She pales.

“…shall I inform your son? I can get him permission to leave class early, whatever makes it easiest for your family. Will another family member come and pick him up?”

“…his father.” Vernon needs to know, they need to do something! Already she can see the enquiring stares and whispers behind hands of –  _ oh the Dursley’s, one child ruined, and the custody of the other taken.  _ She’s not sure what is worse, the mere wisp of possibility that Dudley might be taken from them or the chance that whatever the freak has done now, has alerted Lily’s freakish people.

No, she is Dudley’s mother, and she will  _ do  _ this.

She takes a deep breath, and for a moment lets the fear rush up her lungs and into her throat as if Dudley is the one being whisked away to hospital. “O-oh, I…” Her voice breaks, “my little boy!” She wails, “I need to… the hospital!” She says, voice thick with tears.

“Of course, Mrs Dursley,” The receptionist says, kindly, “Just ask Mr Dursley to give us a ring when he arrives. You just focus on little Harry.”

“Y-yes, I –“ She stammers, staring at the receiver in disbelief. “- thank you.” She says, instead of cursing.

She hangs up, and then dials another number.

It rings three times.

And then –

“Pet? Why are you ca-”

“Vernon, the freak’s in hospital.” And like that, it all tumbles out. “The school called and Vernon, they’re going to find out, about everything, and then they’ll!” She can barely breathe by this point. “They’ll take Dudley away! They’ll take our baby, Vernon! They’ll-”

“PET, GET A GRIP!” They’re both breathing harshly into the phone, hearts pounding. There’s an ominous pause, because neither of them are perfect or particularly upset about the freak getting hurt but the notion of taking Dudley away rips into them with rage and fear unlike any other.

“Right,” Her husband says. “Here’s the plan…”

[-]

One moment, Harry is adrift and then he is awake.

There’s a low hum of chatter and the steady beep-beep of something close by. His eyes are still closed, something gunky and sticky forcing him to blink multiple times until it tears away from his lashes.

Instantly the world is nearly too bright. His eyes water for a moment and then the feeling subsides. There is something thick lodged in his throat, so he tries to swallow around it, only to find it stuck. He gives up after a few tries, each attempt makes his throat ache. He’s not in Privet Drive anymore, that’s for certain.

There are blue curtains to either side of his bed. He turns his head a little, to see if he can see round them, but spots burst across his vision so he decides to stay put. Directly, opposite his bed is white wall, the placement of it and the curtains makes Harry almost think he’s lying in a long, open corridor. There are posters on his patch of wall. A green sign listing seven ways to wash your hands. A blue sign saying ‘shhhh’.

He closes his eyes.

“…rry? Harry?”

It takes him a moment to recognize who that is – oh, that’s me – and then he opens his eyes blearily.

“Hello, Harry,” A woman, brown hair tied up, smiles softly back at him. “Sorry to wake you, darling.”

Harry hadn’t even realised when he’d fallen asleep again. He opened his mouth to talk, but something was blocking him, he couldn’t speak, he swallowed but it wouldn’t go –

“It’s okay,” She said, “We’ve put a breathing tube down your throat for now, so it’ll feel a bit weird.”

She fiddles with something at the side of his bed and his eyes widen when the bed tilts upwards, like magic.

“You’ve had a wee bit of an accident at school, darling.” She says, patting his arm. His body feels heavy and limp under the blanket.

  


The next time he wakes up, the tube down his throat is gone, and it’s much darker. The curtains are different too, light green instead. There’s something in his nose, he follows the line of cables to a funny little machine. He tries to squint at the label on it but his glasses are missing.


End file.
